Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT086VJ159G5EZEBQ9YKTV4

Detective Harlow Quinn’s boot crunched on gravel as she descended the narrow stairwell into the disused Camden Tube station. Her torch sliced through gloom, illuminating peeling adverts and flaking tile. A thin hiss whispered from a distant curve. No trains ran here. She paused at the platform’s edge, heart tightening at the unnatural hush. Under a single, sputtering lamp lay the body. A man in a navy suit, half his face pressed against the rail. One arm reached out, fingers anchored to a small brass compass. Quinn crouched, beam trembling over a dark stain on his chest. The stain bubbled like oil. She leaned closer, inhaled copper on her tongue. Behind her, DS Ishaan Patel’s camera clicked. He aimed at chalk-scrawled outlines and the tracks beyond. “Early guess: robbery gone wrong. Stabbed while fighting off muggers. He slipped in front of a train.” Quinn edged closer to the rail. A cluster of bone fragments lay scattered across the gravel like shattered pearls. She nudged one with her gloved finger. It cracked under pressure, fine lines tracing a spiral pattern. Bone token design — something sold only at the underground market. Patel glanced over. “You sure those bits aren’t from the sleepers?” She studied the shards. They gleamed pale against the dark stones. No mineral trace. “Human bones break differently.” She nudged another fragment. It splintered like porcelain. Patel swallowed, scribbled in his notebook. “Right.” Quinn’s beam swept the tunnel wall. Between bricks, someone had etched runes into mortar, then coated them in chalk. The symbols formed a circle of twisting lines, half-faded. She traced one rune with her fingertip. It felt cold as ice, yet pulsed faintly under her glove. Threads of memory snagged at her mind—Morris’s last case, an abandoned dockyard, the same symbol carved into a shattered door. Her partner lost to forces she still couldn’t name. She rose, flashlight illuminating her sharp jawline and the worn leather watch on her wrist. She shone light on the compass. Brass casing patinaed green at the edges. Sigils ringed the glass face, protective glyphs she recognised from occult files. The needle spun, paused, then jerked toward the chalk circle, refusing to settle on magnetic north. Quinn reached for it. Patel stepped back. “Don’t touch.” She ignored him. The compass hummed, warmth radiating through her fingers. “He died holding this.” She flipped it open, caught the needle quivering toward the runes. From deeper in the tunnel came a low pulse, a thrum that pressed against her chest. She lifted her head. The station shifted. Shadows bulged. The lamp’s bulb flickered, then steadied. A voice echoed behind her, soft and urgent. Eva Kowalski appeared on the platform, books and satchel slung over her shoulder. Her curls caught the light like embers. Glasses slid down her nose. She knelt by the runes, fingertips brushing chalk. “Detective,” Eva said, voice taut. “You asked for help.” Patel frowned. “We called the museum on a stabbing?” Eva ignored him. She flipped open a battered volume, pages loose and dog-eared. She traced symbols, tongue poking a corner of her mouth. “These runes aren’t random. They’re sealing glyphs. Used to lock a breach, contain something… or someone.” Patel scoffed. “Someone sealed in and strangled themselves to death? Sounds legit.” Quinn crouched beside Eva. She brushed away a patch of wet gravel. Damp seeped through her gloves. She pressed the compass to the ground. The needle quivered, swung until it pointed behind the chalk circle. She rose, followed its arc to the edge of the platform, then down to the water-stained sleepers. There, a puddle glowed faint red, as though lit from below. Patel crossed his arms. “Blood. Pretty straightforward.” Quinn held up her gloved hand. No smear. The puddle rippled, then receded—like a tide pulling back. She flashed her light through it. The beam glowed red on the far wall, where bricks bulged outward in a smooth arc. A fracture. A slit. She rose rapidly. The lamp overhead flickered again. “Listen.” Silence pressed in. Then came a metallic sigh, a whisper like rustling silk. The puddle shivered. The slit widened. Thin smoke leaked out, curling along the track like a snake. Patel took a step back. Eva rose beside him, face pale. “That’s not a train.” The smoke thickened, coiling free of the wall. Quinn lifted the compass. Its sigil-etched face glowed in response. The needle swung away from north, pinned on the fracture. “Portal,” she said. “It’s still open.” Patel’s eyes narrowed. “You mean a doorway? In a wall? Come on.” Quinn knelt and picked up a bone shard. She held it under the lamp. Etched into the surface: a rune matching one on the wall. She pocketed it. “He used his token as a key. Tried to seal it from the other side. That’s him on the tracks.” Eva stepped closer, voice urgent. “He anchored the seal with this token, but the circle was incomplete. Look here.” She tapped a break in the chalk ring. “That gap reopens the breach.” Quinn studied the runes. They twisted inward around the hollow spot. She shone her light over the wet floor, where no footprints led to or from the body. “He didn’t come back. He died inside.” Patel ran a hand through his hair. He nodded. “Fine. Portal mana things. So what killed him?” Quinn rose, compass in hand. She followed the beam toward the glowing puddle. Each step made the slime recede, leaving damp stone. “Whatever came through.” Eva pulled Quinn aside. “If this breach collapses properly, it’ll close itself. But leaky containment can rip a soul asunder. He stabbed himself trying to force the wound closed.” Her voice trembled. “No blade killed him.” Quinn turned to Patel. “You’ll document the scene. Get the district engineer to seal the entrance permanently. I want that puddle sampled. Full analysis.” She pointed to the runes. “That circle goes to evidence. After we remove the body.” Patel glanced at the widening slit. Smoke seeped, thicker now, tendrils drifting into the station. “You want to chase whatever just crawled out of that?” Quinn smiled, cold. “No.” She clipped her torch to her belt. She pulled the compass free. Needle pulsed, glowing against the sigils. She snapped it shut. “I want to follow it.” Eva zipped her book into her satchel. “I’ll log the rune pattern. Then I can tell you where it leads.” Quinn nodded. “Do it.” She faced the breach. Smoke rose over her visor, carrying a scent of iron and old paper. The station’s walls creaked. Her pulse skimmed her fingers. She held up her leather-watch hand, saw the second hand tick free from time’s grip. “Darren Morris would’ve loved this,” she muttered, voice low. Patel blinked. “Morris?” Quinn pulled out a small photograph from her breast pocket: two detectives in raincoats, grinning beneath a streetlamp. She stared at it a moment, then tucked it away. “He called it a door too. Never told anyone what lay behind.” She squared her shoulders. The breach pulsed, the runes glowed faint. Bones lay scattered like breadcrumbs. The compass vibrated in her hand. Patel exhaled. “I’ll seal the platform.” He turned to gather tape. Quinn didn’t wait. She stepped onto the tracks. Eva followed, boots scuffing gravel. The red pool glowed under her boots, then retreated, exposing sleepers slick with damp. The slit widened, smoke drifting out in lazy spirals. Quinn knelt, held the compass over the breach. The needle spun, then anchored toward the deep curve of the tunnel. “Right that way,” she said. “Come on.” Eva closed in, flipping her book open. She muttered under her breath, matching glyphs to runes, eyes darting. Quinn listened to the hum, rising in pitch. The station around them warped, walls pulsing with each beat. She tasted ozone on her tongue. They crept forward, each step a drum in the tunnel’s hollow throat. The compass needle beat against its casing, as though eager to be free. Each footfall cracked the silence, each breath rang in her ears. The bone token in her pocket throbbed a pulse she felt in her fingertips. The tunnel narrowed. The runes on the wall glowed one by one, as if waking. Eva’s voice whispered over Quinn’s shoulder. “The market shifts at dawn. We’ve got hours before they move this place—if they ever did.” Quinn glanced back at the widened breach. Smoke curled behind them, slow and mournful. She tucked her torch under her arm and pressed the compass to her chest. The needle stopped, pointing straight ahead. She rose to her feet, gravel crunching. “Then we make our own shift,” she said. She led them into darkness, toward whatever waited beyond the edge of light.